by Gayle Lynds
As he slalomed across the intersection and turned back to retrace his route on the other side, he checked Quinn, who still sat stoically on the bench with his cloth shopping sack, and then Martina, who remained in her beach chair under the pepper tree, apparently reading the newspaper, chin tilted high. Everything was under control.
Still, he slowed his skateboard to study the area, wondering about a man who was pushing a baby carriage. Dressed in gray sweatpants and sweatshirt, he had passed by a half hour ago, returned, and was now heading off around the corner again. The man was big and bulky, with sharp features and thick black eyebrows. He could simply be taking the baby out for fresh air, circling the block.
Bash also noted a man with long brown hair and a thin face, riding a blue Vespa motor scooter. He had driven past fifteen minutes ago and perhaps earlier, too. Motor scooters were ubiquitous in Rome, and many Vespas rushed along the street. The man might be a messenger of some kind.
Passing beneath a branching maple tree, Bash again neared Yitzhak Law’s old house. He could see no one through the windows. But then as he cruised past, there was a faint explosion from deep inside, the noise muffled by the stone walls. A gunshot. His chest tightened. He did an immediate one-eighty and dug his foot into the pavement, speeding back on his skateboard toward the steps.
In the kitchen, Judd held his pistol steadily against Angelo Charbonier’s temple, his arm braced against his throat. With a single hard thrust, he could crush Angelo’s windpipe if he tried to retake his weapon.
But now that Odile had arrived, Angelo smiled triumphantly. His eyes were as hard and black as anthracite. “Return my pistol, Judd,” he ordered. “You do not want anything to happen to Roberto.”
Roberto’s face was pale with fear. Sweat glistened on his forehead. “I do not understand . . .” He stared helplessly at Yitzhak.
The professor had risen from his hiding place behind the table. His eyes blinked too fast as he demanded, “Put your guns away. All of you. What is this insanity?”
Odile asked her husband in French, “Have you summoned the men?”
Eva started to translate for Judd.
Judd interrupted her. “I know what Odile said. And my guess is their men are either here or soon will be. I saw Angelo reach into his pocket when he heard about Yakimovich.” He said to Angelo, “You figured you’d learned all you were going to, so you signaled them, right?”
Angelo’s smile widened, but he did not answer the question. “We now have, as you Yankees say, a standoff. If you do not return my weapon, Odile will shoot Roberto. And she will, believe me.”
“I’m tempted to fire anyway,” Judd said. “Wipe you, and by the time Odile pulls her trigger, I’ll get off a clean shot at her. Then you’ll both be dead.”
Odile stepped farther behind Roberto so his body was a better shield against the threat of Judd. “There is another solution,” she said. “You and I can put down our weapons. We can talk.”
“Lower your gun, Odile,” Judd said, “and I’ll lower mine.”
She nodded. As their gazes locked, they let their gun hands descend.
As he neared the house’s steps, Bash Badawi slowed his skateboard, watching again. Something besides the gunshot was wrong, but he could not quite identify it. The afternoon sunlight beat down harshly, turning the street scene with its growling cars and low scooters and bobbing pedestrians into waves of streaming color. As his mind quickly sorted through what his eyes saw, he realized six men in shorts and T-shirts in wide bands of green, white, and red—the colors of Italy’s flag—had rounded the corner in a bunch, feet light and forearms raised, hands loose, in the usual way of joggers. All apparently normal.
But it was not. The pack broke up and scattered, still jogging. Four moved across the street toward Carl and Martina, while two headed in his direction. They were janitors, hired killers, and they had targeted him and his team, which meant someone—perhaps the Vespa rider or the man in the sweatsuit, pushing the baby carriage—had already cased the area for them.
His gaze on the pair who were jogging toward him, Bash slid his hand inside his jacket, unhooked his shoulder holster, and gripped the handle of his Browning.
As Judd kept his gaze on Odile, he and she lowered their pistols to their sides. No one moved or spoke, suspended in a tableau of tension. The only sound was Roberto’s short, frightened breaths, which seemed to shudder against the hard surfaces of the kitchen. He ran to Yitzhak, who put his arm around him.
Appearing to give Roberto room, Eva moved closer to Odile and stopped when she was about four feet away. Judd exchanged a glance with her, remembering her expertise in karate. She narrowed her eyes and gave a slight nod.
Judd stepped back from Angelo. “Tell me about the Library of Gold.”
But it was Odile who answered: “There is nothing to say. All of us have been curious about it for years, of course.”
“Bullshit,” Judd said. “The library’s why you’re here. Why Angelo pulled his gun. Why you have men outside. You want to stop us from finding it.”
Angelo Charbonier straightened against the wall, smoothing his sports jacket. “What I want to know is whom you have informed about what you have learned.”
“I’ll tell you that,” Judd lied, “if you tell me what your relationship is to the library.”
“Hypothetically, let us assume you are correct that we have some knowledge,” Angelo said slowly. “Perhaps even that I am a member of the small book club that supports the library.”
“Was my father a member, too?” Judd asked immediately.
Angelo looked surprised a moment, then shook his head firmly. “Your turn.”
It was a beginning, but Judd did not trust Angelo.“Suppose we give you the scytale, and you tell us more. Then all of us can walk away alive and forget this ever happened.”
“That has possibilities,” Angelo agreed.
Judd checked Eva again, and she stared back.
He gestured at the table. “There’s the scytale. It’s all yours, Odile. Take it.”
“No!” Angelo shouted.
But he was too late. Odile was already striding toward it.
Bash made a fast decision. His assignment was to protect Judd Ryder and Eva Blake. His fellow team members, Martine and Quinn, would fend for themselves. He had to break into the professor’s house, and quickly.
Neither of the two janitors jogging toward him had showed a weapon yet, and they likely planned not to until they were beside him and could liquidate him quietly. He focused on them, propelling himself faster and faster on his skateboard.
The pair was only twenty feet away. Still jogging, they tensed as they saw his increasing speed. They lifted their shirts a few inches and drew out small-caliber pistols with sound suppressors screwed on.
Bash snatched out his Browning. The air felt hot and slick as he raced through it. The two killers aimed. He bent his knees, slid his left foot forward to the nose of his skateboard, and used the other foot to stomp down on the tail. Instantly the board ollied, flying into the air.
Surprised, the men jerked their gazes up. Bash shifted his weight, and the skateboard crashed into the chest of one. He fell hard on his back, and his gun spun away.
Bash landed and rolled, shaking off the impact. A bullet bit into the pavement next to him, but he continued to roll. Pieces of concrete cut into his skin. The downed janitor was swiftly reaching for his gun and rising into a crouch as a second bullet blasted into the pavement near Bash’s head.
Bash fired twice, once into the chest of the standing man and then into the chest of the other. Blood exploded from their T-shirts. Pedestrians who had been walking toward them from both directions rushed away, screaming and shouting. At the same time a gunshot sounded from across the street.
Jumping to his feet, Bash checked across the traffic. Martine was slumped in her chair, her head dangling over her chest, while Quinn lay on his side on the bench. Bash took a deep breath. Both were down. Then he saw their
killers were jogging back to the curb, preparing to cross over and come after him.
He snatched up his skateboard and sprinted up the steps to Yitzhak Law’s door.
30
The sound of Angelo’s loud “No!” reverberated in Judd’s ears as Odile lunged for the gold scytale glittering on the kitchen table. Eva slashed out a fist in a kentsui-uchi hammer strike into Odile’s side, pivoted, and, keeping her hips horizontal and her torso perpendicular, rammed up her elbow in a tate hiji-ate blow to the underside of Odile’s chin.
Odile’s head snapped back, and her pistol fired. There was a moan, and Roberto crashed against the table and slid down to the floor, blood oozing from the top of his shoulder, where his shirt was torn by the bullet.
“Roberto! Roberto!” Yitzhak knelt over him.
Despite the attack, Odile had kept her grip firmly on her gun. As the two women struggled for it, Angelo dove at Judd.
Judd moved quickly out of reach, training his weapon on Angelo. “Stop, dammit.”
Angry furrows creased Angelo’s forehead. He cursed loudly but froze, staring at the pistol.
Judd glanced over at the women just as Eva prepared to smash the side of her hand at Odile’s gun. But Odile slammed a shuto-uchi sword-hand strike to Eva’s arm, then balanced and lashed out in a brutal mae-geri front snap kick to her leg.
Eva toppled, and Odile pressed the pistol’s muzzle into her belly. Odile’s platinum hair was wild, and her eyes naked with fury. Judd fired, his bullet going into the top of the Frenchwoman’s head as she suddenly lowered it. Blood sprayed, and she dropped hard onto Eva, still clasping her weapon.
“Get her gun, Eva,” Judd ordered as he turned back to cover Angelo.
But Angelo had yanked a sharp fileting knife from the magnetic holder above the counter. “Bâtard.” He closed in.
Two more gunshots sounded from the kitchen doorway. Freezing in midstride, Angelo reeled, then fell, blood blossoming scarlet across his beige jacket where the rounds had entered.
As the stink of cordite spread through the room, Bash Badawi walked in, his gun still raised in one muscled hand while his skateboard dangled from the other.
“Lucky shots.” Judd grinned at him.
“Lucky shots, my ass. Glad I got here in time for the party. How you doing, Eva?”
“Never better.” Holding Odile’s pistol, Eva crouched beside Roberto and Yitzhak. Her face and green jacket were splattered with blood.
Bash peered across at Angelo’s motionless body, then down at Odile’s. “They must’ve arrived before I did. There was no sign they were here.”
Judd nodded. “How many janitors outside?”
“Four still in action, dressed like joggers. Two others down.” He gave a brief smile, his young face suddenly amused. “I had a bit of a dustup with them.” Then he added soberly, “We lost Martine and Quinn.”
“That’s bad. I’m sorry. How did you get in?”
“I picked the lock. The Polizia di Stato are on the way. I heard sirens, very close. Their focus is going to be on the two janitors in the street and Martine and Carl. The good thing is the sirens and witnesses have probably scared away the last four in the wet squad.”
“But they could still come in the back door.” Judd slammed the dead bolt, then peered out the kitchen’s large window, which overlooked a small rear yard of lilacs and grass. A brick pathway led to the end of a high brick wall, which enclosed the property. There was a cobblestone alleyway on the far side, showing through a wrought-iron gate. No one was in sight.
“We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” Judd told them. “Check the woman, Bash. I’ll take the man.” He went to Angelo.
“Roberto needs a doctor,” Eva reminded them. “How do you feel, Roberto?”
“It is over?” Roberto whispered. He was sitting up, leaning against a table leg. His bearded face was pasty, his lips dry.
“Everything’s fine,” she assured him.
“Hold this down for me.” Yitzhak indicated to Eva the bloody handkerchief he had clamped onto Roberto’s shoulder wound. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
“This one’s a dead rat,” Bash reported from where he stooped over Odile. “How’s yours?”
“Dead, too.” Judd wiped the handle of Angelo’s pistol and pressed it into his flaccid hand. He searched Angelo’s pockets, leaving the billfold. There was nothing useful inside, not even a cell phone. “Is your gun traceable, Bash?”
“No way. That dumb I’m not.”
“Good. Put the woman’s prints on it and leave it next to her. They’ll look as if they shot each other. Take Odile’s gun from Eva. You need to be armed.”
“No.” Reaching for the kitchen telephone, Yitzhak turned to glare at them. His face was an angry red, and drops of sweat dotted his bald head. “We have to give the police the whole truth.”
Feeling the pressure of time, Judd ignored the professor and told Bash, “As soon as you’re done here, go to the front of the house and check the windows. I want to know what’s happening outside.” Then he focused on Yitzhak. “Hang up the phone, professor. Roberto’s got a flesh wound. We’ll get him medical attention, but not just yet. Sticking around here could be your death warrant. Roberto’s, too. These people have been trying to terminate Eva.”
Yitzhak frowned at her. “That’s true?”
“Yes,” she told him. “Remember Ivan the Terrible’s Oprichniki? That’s what they’re like—utterly ruthless.”
“They’re going to want to find out what you know about us and where we’re going,” Judd said. “They’ll track you down, and as soon as you tell them, they’ll kill you. All of us need to leave—and fast. Can you walk, Roberto?”
“I think so.” His voice was weak. He had been listening, his brown eyes round and frightened. “Yes, it is obvious we must go.”
Yitzhak put the telephone back into its cradle. “Eva, you take one side of Roberto, and I’ll take the other.”
As they supported him, Roberto rose to his feet, and Bash ran back into the room.
“The police are blocking off the street,” he said. “I found the dead woman’s purse in the sitting room. She didn’t have a cell, either.”
“I’d rather not risk going out the back door,” Judd told him. “Yitzhak, I saw what looks like the beginning of a tunnel at the end of your refuge downstairs. Can we get out that way?”
“I think so, but it may not be easy.” Yitzhak’s voice was strong. With Roberto’s uninjured arm draped over his shoulder, he had returned to his normal self.
Eva took the gold scytale and fragment of Arabic Judaica, and she and the others went ahead. Judd tore up the top and bottom of the cardboard box with Charles’s writing and Eva’s name. Stuffing the pieces into the garbage disposal, he turned it on, then threw the Styrofoam bubbles and the rest of the box into the trash. He peered around the kitchen to make certain they had left nothing behind. Last, he checked the window—and dropped below the counter. He rose up slowly, just enough to see out again.
Men were at the rear gate. One wore a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants; the others were dressed in jogging shorts and T-shirts. The big man in the sweatsuit tried to open the gate, but it was locked. Muttering to himself, he took out picklocks.
Judd raced to the stairs under the broad staircase and descended into the brick-lined cellar. Voices sounded, floating up from the ragged hole in the floor. He started down it, stopping to drag the brick trapdoor over the opening. It was heavy, but he leveraged it up and settled it into place. With luck, none of the killers would discover Yitzhak’s secret domain.
He hurried down to the bottom, where Jupiter and Juno gazed regally from their thrones. The silence was luminous in the ancient room, a stillness that seemed to wrap around him and promise safety. But there was no safety yet.
Everyone was gathered at the street-side end of the long room, where rubble was strewn and a brown wall of dirt rose to the ceiling. Bash and Eva were throwing rocks out of the way. What ha
d been a small tunnel was now much larger.
Eva saw him. “Are Angelo’s men in the house?”
“Not yet, but they will be in minutes.” Judd hurried toward them.
The tunnel was about four feet high and three feet wide. There was darkness on the other side, and he could hear the sound of distant running water. Five flashlights lay in a row on the marble floor.
“You must lead,” Roberto told the professor, who was still supporting him. “I can walk by myself. Judd is right. I am fine—just messy looking.” He glanced at the bloody handkerchief he was holding to his wound.
The professor nodded. “We’re going under the street. Take your flashlights.” He handed one to Roberto and picked up one for himself. Hunching over, he moved into the darkness.
“I’ll go last,” Judd told the others, thinking about the janitors who might be smarter than he hoped.
Bash grabbed his skateboard, and Eva slung her satchel onto her back. They disappeared into the burrow. Judd paused. When he heard nothing from above, he crouched and hurried into the darkness, his flashlight shooting a cone of light. The air began to smell of moss and damp.
The small group was waiting for him at the end.
“You need to see this,” Eva told him.
He squeezed past to look out at a natural underground tunnel, black and seemingly endless, a crude dirt bore through ancient Rome. It was more than six feet high and twelve feet wide, carved out over the millennia by a freshwater stream that rushed past at high velocity. As he beamed his flashlight over it, it sparkled like mercury.
He moved his flashlight again. There were dirt banks on either side of the stream, not far above the fast-moving water. The banks were dangerously narrow, only a foot wide in places. Walking would be treacherous. They would have to go single file.
“The stream follows the street?” he asked.
“Yes, at least part of the way,” the professor answered. “I believe it feeds into the Cloaca Maxima—the Great Drain—west of here. That’s an ancient sewer that runs beneath the Roman Forum. Several of the city’s underground streams feed into it.”
